Like Broken Glass
by Love and Rock Music
Summary: A shattered queen, a forbidden love, and a secret deeper than even he could imagine. One drunken night and Edmund knows everything. Pre-LB, sequel to The Call of the Horn.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** This is the official sequel to my story The Call of the Horn. It's set a month or two after the original, and only a few weeks prior to The Last Battle. If you're a new reader, please give it a try even if you haven't read any of my other stuff; since it's written from Edmund's angle and he wasn't around for TCotH, the storyline shouldn't be too hard to follow. As a note of forewarning, this is pretty much a Lucy/Caspian pairing even though no romance really takes place.

To my readers of TCotH: Thank you all for being so supportive. This is dedicated to everyone who gave their feedback, especially Mitzuko-chan. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer:** Narnia and all of its locales and characters original to The Chronicles of Narnia are trademarks of C.S. Lewis Pte. Ltd. They are reproduced here solely for enjoyment and not for profit.

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1. Chapter 1

"_. . . Pity smouldered like decay at his heart. He would never rid himself of it. He knew from experience how passion died away and how love went, but pity always stayed. Nothing ever diminished pity. The conditions of life nurtured it. There was only a single person in the world who was unpitiable, oneself._"

He stopped there, propping his elbow up on the armrest and resting his chin in his palm, mulling over the words. The discouragement of self-pity? He thought he might disagree. Pity for oneself was appreciation for the trials and impossibilities of a lifetime, a recognition of regret. To have self-pity was to understand life realistically. Better to have to some measure of self-pity than to deny the bad parts of your own life. Heaven knew he of all people shouldn't glaze over the bad choices he'd made, but remember them and try to make some kind of atonement. But then, he guessed he shouldn't feel bad for himself, since everything had always been his free choice – thinking now, he supposed it was an impossible argument.

Edmund was reclining in his favourite armchair in the sitting room, reading his newest literary acquisition: _The Heart of the Matter_ by Graham Greene. As much as he liked the book, though, his wished Peter were home for some brotherly conversation. Edmund certainly could have used him around tonight. Unfortunately, Peter's latest job had forced him to get a small flat on the other end of London, and now the family saw him only at weekend suppers. It was hard luck, because he rather thought everyone needed Peter around to keep the family together. His nature to do good by everyone always made things easier whenever there was friction between them – and lately, Edmund felt that they were more and more in want of Peter's commanding presence.

Their bond as a foursome had weakened over the years, becoming less like it was in the war years and nothing like it had been in Narnia. They were drifting apart, growing up, finding their own lives in a world where there was no magical country to rule over. Peter and Susan had left school now; Peter was pursuing higher education – he was nearing the end of his third year at University – and Susan had her job at the dress-shop. She used to volunteer at a veterans' hospital, but that had finished and now she spent the reminder of her time at social gatherings. Invitations, nylons, and gossiping about so-and-so's party were Susan's pastimes now.

As for Lucy, she had her own goings-on; summer studies, her girls' chorus, and a group of friends of her own. But Lucy was always Lucy, the enduring source of cheer and youth and good in their lives. She might laugh less, but she still smiled and told stories, forever reminiscing – _Do you remember, remember when Peter slipped in mud right before we met the Terebinthian king?_ Here, her cheeks might be pink from rouge instead of dancing, but that didn't matter. She still befriended the weak and reached out to the lonely, as Valiantly as she could in this world. Sometimes he caught her looking wistful, in a small moment on her own, but mostly she devoted herself to others. Edmund would never admit it, but she was very much a comfort to him, especially when they had first discovered there would be no going back. Her shining presence and continuous reminders of the happy times had helped ease the transition from Narnians to Britons. The problem was, comfort and gentleness were Susan's gifts.

As they sought to find their own paths in this world, somewhere along the line Susan had declared their beloved Narnia make-believe. Juvenile and for children, she'd called it one night, causing a huge row. Lucy had cried, Peter alternated between yelling and lecturing, and Edmund had watched it all without uttering a word. From then on ties had been strained between them all. Susan had surrendered herself entirely to the "modern woman" that every fashion advert seemed to be touting. With her pantyhose and pin-curls, it was hard to remember his sister as Susan the Gentle, robed in regal gowns and hair that fell to her feet. She went often to parties and dances, escorted always by a different young man, many times retuning in the early hours of morning. She cared for little else, and became quite cross if anyone mentioned Narnia in front of her.

In response, Peter and Lucy had each developed their own methods about remedying Susan's apparent disbelief in their country. Lucy's strategy was simple: to remind her how much she loved being a queen in Narnia. Lucy, forever the naïve and trusting one, truly believed that Susan had forgotten it – or as she put it, "gave up the memories because they hurt too much." Lucy kept up a constant stream of encouragement around Susan, retelling the old stories and describing the things she loved – had loved – about Narnia. Oftentimes, though, this angered Susan to a point where Edmund had to step in to defend his younger sister from the harsh tongue of his elder.

Peter's approach was rather more realistic. "Let her have her fun," he said. "She feels lost. We all did. When she finds Him here, then she'll come back to us." Whenever Peter said this, Edmund often had to bite his own to tongue to keep from pointing out that he hadn't found Aslan here either, because he knew that Peter had. He was practically shining with the light of the Lion, for heaven's sake. But Edmund forgave his brother this dogmatism, and Peter continued to humour her – or "guide her" as he put it – because as High King, his highest goal was to keep the four of them united.

Unlike his siblings, Edmund wasn't going to waste his time reminding Susan what she was forgetting or waiting for her to come round. He knew she being stupid and selfish, and that no amount of trying could persuade her to "believe" again. He was sure she still remembered Narnia, only now she considered herself better and more grown-up than any of it. Edmund was all for letting her do whatever she liked. However, if the situation required it – usually when Susan was giving Lucy a hard time – Edmund had no trouble telling her how ridiculously she was acting. Peter heartily disagreed with this reasoning, because it meant that the pair of them often came to heads with Lucy in the middle, and without himself around to act as mediator. As recently as last Christmas Edmund and Susan had had a shouting match in Lucy's bedroom. They really hadn't spoken much since.

Despite their diluted relationship, however, Edmund knew that Susan missed all three of them. She may loathe the very basis of their ties as brothers and sisters, but she missed the ties all the same. He could tell Susan still wanted to be a sister to them, only without Narnia in the picture. She often made efforts to take Peter or Lucy along when she went somewhere. Lucy's giving personality made her the best target, and many times she was pushed into accompanying Susan and her flighty friends. That was exactly the difficulty Edmund had faced this evening, because Peter hadn't been home to side with him, and Susan had used her influence – she'd always been good at that – to convince Lucy to come out with her.

Lucy had taken some persuading, but Susan had been very eager to bring her along tonight. If there was one thing to be said about his younger sister, it was that she hated to make others unhappy. Edmund had watched the hesitation on her face while Susan explained that tonight would be "a good one" and they simply _had_ to wait until their parents were in bed. Lucy gave in, and spoke privately to Edmund when he tried to change her mind. "Don't worry, Ed, I'll be fine," she had reassured him, and Susan had promised to be home at midnight.

Now he was waiting up for them, reading to distract himself, but it wasn't helping very much. He glanced at his watch once more; it was nearly a quarter to one and he was getting more unsettled every second.

The telephone rang and Edmund leapt out of his seat. Who on earth would be calling at this hour? His mind instantly jumped to the worst as he yanked the earpiece off the cradle, silencing the ringing. Luckily the sound couldn't be heard upstairs, where his parents were asleep, but Edmund knew the neighbours that shared their phone line wouldn't be pleased at being woken in the middle of the night.

"Hullo?" he said, trying to speak quietly.

"Edmund?" said a voice. The other end of the line was loud and distorted, and he had a hard time distinguishing the speaker.

"Robert?" he asked. "Is that you? Why are you calling?"

"Edmund, you might want to come down here. Your sister's had a bit much to drink and she's not doing too well."

"What? Is she all right?" He didn't even bother asking which sister, a fact that did not escape his appreciation for irony. "Where's Susan?"

He heard Robert mumble something about "not around" and his instinct went off like an alarm bell. Susan would never. . . He swallowed, and asked the most important question. "Where are you?"

"Twenty-seven Cardinal Avenue in Lower Morden. The house at the corner."

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**A/N:** So what do you think? The Lucian bits really won't be mentioned until Chapter 3 – I like to think that people can enjoy the majority of this story as just a regular Narnia fic, even though it's a branch of a LucyCaspian.

Next up: In which Edmund comes to Lucy's rescue, and finds England's ugly alternative to royal suitors.


	2. Chapter 2

2. Chapter 2

"_The houses were white as bones in the moonlight; the quiet streets stretched out on either side like the arms of a skeleton, and the faint sweet smell of flowers lay on the air._"

This was the house, right? It had to be. All the lights were on and he could hear a gramophone cranking out a tune. Edmund parked the car, and wondered whether he ought to leave it running. He certainly didn't want to stay here for long. With a sigh of unpleasant acceptance, he realised this could take more than a few minutes, and pocketed the keys.

It was crowded. Edmund pushed his way through people milling about, searching for Robert or Lucy, or even a trace of Susan, however unlikely it may be. This was more difficult than it should have been. It was an old house with any number of rooms, all hazy with cigarette smoke and filled with loud party-goers. Simply impossible to navigate, and considering that she might also be moving about, his chances of finding Lucy depended on luck.

Still, he kept going, weaving in and out of corridors stuffed with people. He recognized a few faces he remembered from school, but they did not greet him. Edmund was glad for that. It would only waste more time, and he'd never had that many friends anyway. He merely went on, past people shouting and drinking, toasting their friends. The music mixed with hum of voices, and he could the faint tinkle of shattering glass. He passed a young girl sprawled out on the floor, crying pitifully, being consoled by a girlfriend. Edmund felt his fingers curl into fists. He _hated_ parties. Lucy shouldn't have even gone in the first place! He disliked the get-togethers Peter sometimes pulled him along on, but at least they had been subdued, mature affairs. Susan's friends were an entirely different matter. Wild, uncontrolled, and shameless, they went around doing whatever they pleased. Which usually included parties that lasted until dawn. It was a world of glamour and image, causal love and the continuous search for the newest craze. Susan had been immersed in it since she'd decided to "grow up".

Edmund was going against the flow of crowd now; they all spilled from one direction with drinks in hand. Laughter and people were thick about, and through the din, he thought he caught Lucy's voice. Edmund pushed through people and tried to follow the sound, straining his ears against the noise. He was sure he could hear her now. Suddenly, he emerged in the centre of a room and was greeted by the most distasteful sight he'd ever seen.

Lucy was sitting precariously on a stool, surrounded by lewd-looking men all of whom were older than her. She waved a glass of who knew what in her hand, and the sleeve of her dress had slipped off one shoulder. It all would have been quite bad enough, but then he realised she was talking about Narnia.

"– and I said, 'I think you're very nice, blut – but – living in the Lone Islands is far too far for me!' and anyway he _wasn't_ a _very_ handsome duke. Peter wouldn't have allowed me to marry him anyhow, and we had to obey him as Kigh Hing" – she giggled – "I mean, High King."

"Right. High King over all Kings in Narnia," said one fellow, sniggering to his friend.

Oblivious, Lucy answered, "Yes. He had the final say in everything, even when we went back to help Caspian. I told them, _I told them_, but nobody listened to me! I _knew_ I saw Aslan, but Peter didn't listen." She dropped her voice to an excited whisper, saying, "That's what he said when I found the wardrobe!" Then she resumed her story and continued, "And then we met all those Telmarines in the outpost and everyone knew I was right all along! To the Lion!" she cried jubilantly, raising her arm in a toast and drinking deeply from her cup. She nearly tipped backward off her seat, but another man caught her and set her right again, leaving his hands on her body for far too long.

Edmund felt his heart drop into his stomach. He made to stride towards her, but his mate Robert had found him. He stood in front of him, saying, "Where've you been? It's been a sight, blabbing on about secret countries and kings and talking animals! She's pretty sloshed."

"Where's Susan? Why isn't she taking care of Lucy?"

"Susan?" said Robert. "She disappeared a while ago, with some bloke. Apparently the party wasn't exciting enough."

Edmund resisted the urge to swear. "Right. Now, I'm going to fetch Lucy and take her home, and you can tell Susan whatever you like if you see her."

Robert caught the look in his eye. "Edmund, don't do anything foolish. There are ten of them and one of you."

Edmund ignored his friend, and hastened into the ring of spectators around Lucy. "Ed!" she exclaimed, spotting him. "Everyone! King Edmund the Just has made his arrival! All cheers to my royal brother – !"

The men eyed him wantonly, looking him up and down. Almost all of them were taller than he, but Edmund met their stares evenly, unafraid. Lucy was still blithering on, "– my new friends, Ed. This is Jack, and Willie, and Ralph, and – er – Jack, and –"

"Lu," he said firmly, "I'm taking you home."

"What? No! I'm telling them all about Narnia! I told them all about you too, and the way you fought at Beruna. They're very impressed."

Edmund was unyielding. He was determined to be a voice of reason in this madness. "No, Lu. You've got to come home."

"I don't want to!"

He caught a heady whiff of her breath and his stomach roiled – she needed to get home, fast. He seized her arm and made to forcibly take her off the stool. One of the men clapped his hand on Edmund's shoulder, saying, "You heard the princess. She doesn't want to go with you." The unspoken threat couldn't be clearer.

"Queen!" piped Lucy unhelpfully. "I'm a queen!"

"Of course you are," said one the others smoothly.

Inwardly, Edmund seethed. This was _not_ where Lucy should be. Still, he kept his temper. For a moment, his mind flashed to Peter in the East End, and then, bitterly, to his own sword and dagger. But he couldn't think of that. Edmund knew the way to best deal with this wasn't force, but intellect – and anyhow, he certainly couldn't take them on as he was, alone and unarmed. He relaxed his shoulders and opened his palms, groping for the words to reason with them all.

"Look, I'm not going for any trouble. I just want to take her home."

"Yeah? Well, we want her to stay," said the beefiest of the lot. "Isn't that right, chaps?"

A chorus of agreements answered back.

Edmund bit back a snappish retort. It most definitely wouldn't do to upset the group; they were obviously liquored up and ready to fight anything that made them so inclined. Instead, he summoned the authority with which he had spoken long ago, in the days when none would dare cross him.

"I'm taking her. _My sister_ isn't staying here any longer." His words echoed with power, authority, and the hint of a challenge: the voice of a king. It was this, or perhaps the word "sister" that got everyone to clear off, with loud complaints and curses until they were out of sight.

Sighing, he grabbed the drink away from Lucy and pulled her to her feet. She tried to resist, but Edmund was stern and his grip firm. He yanked her forward, hating the task, and she stumbled and fell. Sprawled out on the floor, with her dress ripped and revealing far too much of her thighs, Lucy started to cry. The others left in the room looked round at her, jeering and laughing at the spectacle she was creating. Edmund heard whispers of the sort, "Grow up," and "A kid like her oughtn't be here anyway," and gritted his teeth.

"Ed," she whined, "take me home."

"Very well," he answered. He hooked his arms around her waist and carried her out.

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**A/N: **In the story-collection of all my work, Odds and Ends, you can find an AU Director's Cut version of this chapter, where Edmund _does_ get into a fight with those guys.

Next up: In which Lucy unwittingly confesses the deepest secret in Narnia history, in between rounds in the toilet.


	3. Chapter 3

3. Chapter 3

"_What an absurd thing it was to expect happiness in a world so full of misery. He had cut down his own needs to a minimum, photographs were put away in drawers, the dead were put out of mind; a razor-strop, a pair of rusty handcuffs for decoration. But one still had one's eyes, he thought, one's ears. Point me out the happy man and I will point you out either extreme egotism, evil - or else absolute ignorance._"

"I don't feel well," Lucy said, the minute he parked the car in their own drive. "Not at all, Edmund. I – I think I might –"

His eyes widened at her words, and he bolted from his seat and helped her out. She swayed on her feet, doubled over, and vomited all over the pavement.

"Oh – oh!" he said, grabbing her. Edmund had never been much for other people's sickness – that was more Lucy's ability, to suppress her own nausea in favour of caring for another person's ills. And while Edmund would gladly swim an ocean of bile for any of his siblings (except perhaps Susan), his sister retching in the yard wasn't the most pleasant thing in the world, and he was careful to keep his feet out of the way. Thankfully, though, he'd had the sense to sweep her golden hair away from her face.

He let them in as quietly as he could, and half-helped her, half-carried her into the toilet. He set her down gently and fetched a cloth from the kitchen. Wiping her mouth, he whispered, "It's all right, Lu. We'll wait it out. You'll be fine. . ."

Her eyes shone like glass, until the tears fell from her face like tiny stars. Edmund tightened his mouth – he couldn't _stand _it when Lucy cried. As he had needed to many times in battle, Edmund ignored his own emotions and concentrated on the task at hand. He began with her shoes. Once those were taken care of, he removed her stockings (they were ripped anyway) and tied up her hair. As he did so, he couldn't help remembering times when Lucy had aided each of them in their foolishness. In Narnia they'd all felt the after-effects of wine at one time or another. Dependable Lucy had always been around no matter how late it was, to mop them up and get them to bed.

Edmund almost smiled, thinking of parties and balls in the Narnia – and the headache that always followed the morning after. They'd all had their own cures: Peter gulped a glass of raw eggs and bathed in the ocean on such mornings, something Edmund had tried at least once with poor results. He'd always found lying in bed the whole day to be the best tonic. While Lucy groaned and clutched her stomach, he even wished for a mug of bitters, the strange herbal concoction that Mr. Beaver had sworn by.

Afterwards, Edmund ended up stretched out in the dry bath, reading _The Heart of the Matter_ again and half-listening to her drunken rambling. She was lying on her stomach in front of the toilet, talking and crying and sometimes leaning over the porcelain bowl. Occasionally, he humoured her and answered the slurred questions she directed at him.

"Ed," she said sometime around two o'clock, according to his watch. "You mustn't tell Caspian I'm not well. He can't find out."

Edmund poked his head out from behind his book. "Why not?" he asked.

"I love him too much, Ed. _So_ much. He doesn't have to worry about me more than he does already." He face wrinkled up, and she started to cry. "I hate it in here. But I don't want to leave. I don't know what I'll do back in England. . . It's so horrible to be stuck in here. Everything is just out there, but I can't leave. I want to be out there, but I can't. I can't. And I have to go back to England and leave Caspian. I don't want to. _I don't want to._" She was really sobbing now, tears streaming down her red cheeks. He could hardly look at her; it was so wretched, so pitiable, so unbefitting of a queen. There was real pain there, pouring out of Lucy to make his heart break.

Edmund sat up in the bath and studied her carefully, considering her words. She wasn't talking about the Dawn Treader, he was sure of that. Had she returned to Narnia once more, and kept it secret? But it was impossible! His mind groped for anything she may have said earlier, trying to understand what it might mean. Likely she was mixing up her words – alcohol didn't exactly create the most trustworthy informants, after all. . . But now that he came to think of it, though, Lucy had been rather subdued lately. Her demeanour had been somewhat distant, less inclined to chatter on about this or that. It was nothing too much for worry, only she was quieter. He remembered that he'd dismissed it as nothing but longing for their lost homeland. He had never even considered something deeper – and surely from her tears, it was a heavy sorrow. But why was she talking about Caspian now? They hadn't spoken about him for months, not since that afternoon they'd spent with Eustace, at Uncle Harold's birthday. They'd never even _talked_ of what Edmund had suspected was a very deep attachment between them. For her to use the word "love" so freely. . . Edmund stared into her watery blue eyes, wondering if he had missed something hidden behind them.

"I didn't want to come back. I love them so much. . . and I know it's not right. Oh, I know it's not right. I know I was lucky to even be there. But I wish I was back there. I would rather be dead than here. . ."

"Lu," he said, alarmed. "What are you talking about?"

What was this? Lucy had always been the positive one, reminding them that Narnia lived on, that "once" meant "always". She was consistently good and faithful, ever-strong never-failing Lucy. It was she that repeated to them, in each of their doubts, that He'd said He was in their world, too. To hear her speak so harshly frightened him more than he was willing to admit.

"I love them so much, Ed," Lucy moaned. "I dream about them. . . My baby. . . and Caspian. . . gone, dead. . . I wish _I_ were dead."

His book was long discarded now; he watched her with knitted brows and a strange feeling in his stomach. He felt queasy. It was a minute or two before he realised it was guilt. Why, why had he not seen this? Had Lucy been pining for Caspian all this time? And what was this talk about a baby? Edmund felt his breath catch in his throat. No, surely not. . .

Lucy had drawn her knees to her chin. She whispered, "I know I didn't dream it all. He was there, inside me. My baby. My _baby_. . ."

Edmund climbed out of the bath and knelt to face her. "Lu," he said, taking her shoulders in his hands. "What are you on about? Did you get back to Narnia?"

She shut her eyes tightly, and tears squeezed out from the corners. "I was there, Ed. And Caspian – and Rilian – my baby. . ."

He searched her face for the answers he needed. It couldn't be. . . could it? Well, he'd known that Caspian had loved Lucy; Caspian had confided those feelings to him on the Dawn Treader. And he'd always thought Lucy returned his affection – but it was madness! Caspian was dead, according to Jill and Eustace. And Aslan had _told_ them they wouldn't return. It was impossible. But. . . his mind flashed through the chances, putting aside their limitations for a moment. He – he supposed that maybe, _maybe_, it might have been. She might have stayed nine months or so, long enough to carry a child. And if they'd had the cordial, she wouldn't bear any signs of it. And – and if she _had_ been there, she'd have been back in no time at all – perhaps. . .

"My baby. . ." moaned Lucy, and she suddenly forced her hand on her mouth. Edmund rubbed small circles on her back while she gagged, whispering soft things. After she finished, they leaned against the wall and he held her limp, crying form. He kept the lines of his mouth taut. Lucy wept in his arms and he kissed her head, thinking of Narnia, of forbidden love, and the chance of a child.

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**A/N:** Feedback is most appreciated.

Next up: In which Susan returns in the early morning hours, and Edmund gives her a piece of his mind.


	4. Chapter 4

4. Chapter 4

"_No human being can really understand another, and no one can arrange another's happiness._"

The door opened with almost inaudible creaking. Had Edmund not been specifically listening for the noise, he wouldn't have caught it at all. His parents certainly wouldn't be able to hear it from the bedroom upstairs, and judging from the quiet hum the engine left in its wake, no one would hear the car leaving either.

He watched from the shadows as Susan poked her head through the door, and after a quick check to confirm the room's vacancy, slipped across the kitchen tile in her stocking feet. She had her high-heeled shoes in one hand. The door closed quietly behind her and Susan began walking towards the stairs.

Edmund stepped from the corner and into the moonlight.

"Ed!" she said in a whisper. "You nearly gave me a fright!"

"Back so late, Susan? Where were you?"

His kept his voice measured and smooth, even though anger was bubbling just beneath the surface. Edmund was generally very good at keeping his emotions in check. It was Peter whose temper sometimes got the better of him – though nine times of ten, it was usually righteous anger. On this particular night, though, with Lucy in such a state, Edmund wasn't too bothered with attempts toward civility. More than anything, he was keen to make his feelings known to Susan. And if that meant indulging his dislike towards her current lifestyle, then so be it.

"I. . . what?" she said, clearly confused at his cool tone. Susan glanced at the bird clock above the stove. "It's only four o'clock."

"So it is," he answered evenly. "Party get a bit carried away, then? You were supposed to be home at twelve."

"I –"

"_Where's Lucy, Susan?_"

She was frowning, and it wasn't becoming on her face at all. Her eyes narrowed dangerously. With crossed arms, his older sister addressed him like a mother scolding a small child.

"_Don't _ask me that, Edmund, because you know perfectly well. Robert told me you came and took Lucy home. And everyone was talking about the scene you made, causing a brawl. . ."

He held up his hand to silence her, and was surprised when she obeyed.

"There was no brawl," he told her. "That's nasty gossip that your gaggle goes on about. But I suppose you know all about that, don't you?"

Susan scowled. "What are you talking about?"

"Never mind it. I don't care about you or your ridiculous friends, it's Lucy I'm worried about."

"What _about _Lucy?" said Susan, portraying cluelessness perfectly. Resentment churned in the pit of his stomach. Had he never been taught otherwise, he would have gladly seized her by the shoulders and shaken her.

"Stop pretending you've no idea what I'm saying! You let Lucy go off on her own and start drinking, and hang around with the worst of _your_ lot," he said, keeping his voice level with some difficulty.

"So what?" she returned. "They're not a bad sort, Ed. Bernice always has the nicest people at her parties. They never get _too_ rowdy."

"You're her _sister_. You're supposed to look after her, take care of her! Not leave her with. . ." He closed his eyes for a moment, hopelessly wishing to expel the scene from memory. "If Peter had been with me, we _would_ have caused a brawl."

A car rolled by on the street outside, throwing light through the windows and briefly illuminating the whole room. Susan's deep brown eyes shone as he hadn't seen in ages. For a fleeting moment, he saw his sister clothed in a sweeping gown, with rolling hills and deep blue mountains behind her. He was beside her, wearing his own royal finery, with the comfortable weight of his sword-belt hanging on his right side. They stood together on a high eastern balcony, awaiting the Narnian sunrise.

But the moment passed, and there was Susan in her party dress, standing with her arms crossed. He shook himself and remembered his anger. As unlikely as it might be, he was still hoping to carve some significance into this unpleasant encounter.

"You're being so selfish, you know? Going about with parties and boys and make-up, and dragging Lucy along with it – you haven't even thought about her at all, have you, Susan? But I'm sure you wouldn't care. It won't bother you at all – what people will say about her after this."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means exactly what I said," he replied. "You don't care that you let Lucy go stumbling around drunk at your stupid party, and you don't care that people will think our sister some – some – "

"Some _what_, Edmund?" said Susan, lowering her voice.

He didn't answer. He thought it would be unwise to travel down a road that might take them to what people thought about _her_.

Silence. Edmund could hear the ticking of the clock like great claps of thunder. "Hmph," said Susan under her breath, and he wondered briefly if he was talking for her sake or his own.

"And the worst is that you realize what you're doing," he went on. "Deep down, at least. I think you miss how close we all used to be. And I think tonight was your trying to get it back again, but you went for it too hard. Lucy's not ready to act that way just yet. I don't know if you'd realised it, but she hasn't quite had the time to develop a tolerance like we had in Narnia."

Susan looked at him. Too late, he realised what he'd said and mentally slapped himself. If she had listened to him at all, bringing up Narnia now ensured she would brush off the entire discussion.

"Narnia? Is that what this is about?" She laughed shrilly, and it echoed around the empty kitchen. Susan glanced up at the ceiling and lowered her voice. "I might have guessed. You're angry that I've grown up and stopping believing in those games!"

"Well, _that_ was never a secret, but I don't even care about it anymore," he said.

If Edmund were honest with himself, that wasn't technically true. A piece of him still missed Susan greatly. They had been terribly close once – confidantes, conspirators, sharing a bond that surpassed words – but that was another lifetime. Another sister, practically. The woman standing before him, with her hands on her hips and a painted red mouth, was a different person entirely from the sister he had known in Narnia. He wished he could have captured her reaction on film. How Peter and Lucy could even _think_ Susan would come to the meeting that was in the works, at which they all planned to talk of Narnia at great length, was far beyond him.

"Then what is it?" she asked, almost indifferently.

"_Why did you take her with you?_" Edmund whispered furiously. "She's only seventeen, if you've forgotten. Then you leave her with a bunch of blokes even Peter wouldn't get along with, and now she's in the toilet honking up whatever she's drank! What's the_ matter_ with you?"

Susan looked a little paler, but so far as that she betrayed no concern. "So?" she said. "What's the matter? She was fine! Girls her age aren't supposed to have their fun imaging secret countries, Ed. What do you want me to say, I'm sorry I wanted to show her a good time?"

"A good _time_? Oh, she had a jolly good time, blabbing on about Narnia and blubbing on the floor. I swear it, Susan, if you ever do anything like this again. . ."

"You'll what?" she said, tossing her hair and displaying the cool nonchalance she was so apt at.

He debated this for a moment, gathering his words together.

"Listen, all right? I've no problem lying to Mum and Dad for you. I don't much care. But if you do something like this again, I'll tell them and I'll tell Peter exactly what happened to Lucy. How her _older sister_ ditched her at a party and I had to fetch her, drunk, and take her home. And I mean it."

She flipped her hair again. "Fine," she hissed, and stalked off toward her bedroom. He made no move to stop her. His piece had been said: there was no use prolonging the rather one-sided conversation.

He heard her bedroom door shut softly. Edmund sighed, rubbing his temples in a vain effort to ease his aching head. When had his relationship with Susan been reduced to angry confrontations and near-threats?

He had often tried to understand Susan's eagerness to distance herself from Narnia, their lives as kings and queens, and everything that had defined their childhood. Everything that, for the other three, was the core of their existence. Susan had resigned herself to searching for the best substitution for royal privilege – which, in this world, was pretty poor sport. And many times, he had wondered if she was truly happy. If there was something to be said about "feeling lost", because even if Edmund didn't want to admit it, he felt lost himself. Probably the only comfort was Lucy – her smiles, stories, and just general cheeriness – yet Susan felt compelled to steer her away from Narnia. . . and allow things like tonight to happen.

"What more can I do?" he asked the empty kitchen, but no reply came. He hadn't really expected one.

The smell of perfume and cigarettes lingered in the air. Edmund left the room with a bitter taste in his mouth.

* * *

**A/N:** Some readers have asked for Peter to make an appearance within this story, so I added a tangent chapter that follows the plotline of Chapter 2's AU Director's Cut over in my story scrapbook, Odds and Ends.

Next up: In which Edmund learns the whole truth when Lucy wakes the next morning.


	5. Chapter 5

5. Chapter 5

"_The truth, he thought, has never been of any real value to any human being - it __is a symbol for mathematicians and philosophers to pursue. In human relations kindness and lies are worth a thousand truths. . ._"

Edmund stretched a little, and lifted his head off the back of the chair. _The Heart of the Matter_ slid off his face onto the floor. He heard his neck crack and he winced; he'd forgotten exactly how painful sleeping in a chair could be. And of course, chairs in England were nothing so comfortable as the chairs in Narnia.

Lucy was still asleep, which was a good thing. She mumbled softly, safe in a dream Edmund hoped was better than the reality they were both living. How late had it been when he'd carried her up to bed – three, maybe four o'clock? Sometime after he and Susan had had that lovely chat. Susan. . . even just thinking about her made his stomach turn.

The events of last evening still wore heavily on his mind. Lucy, those men at the party. . . and what she had whispered to him in the stillness – about Caspian, and what might have happened between them – he sighed, kneading his stiff neck. Then Susan had come home and made everything worse. He may have made mistakes, he thought, but at least he wasn't as bad off as Susan. He hoped. And at least he was trying to make up for it.

Edmund trooped across the hall, put on his pyjamas and dressing-gown, and went downstairs again. He tidied up the bathroom and checked the sitting room, and even went out to the car for good measure. Everything was set, so he headed back to his bedroom again, intent to wait until everyone else rose. On the way, Edmund paused in Susan's doorway and peeked into her room for a moment. She was sleeping peacefully. Her black hair was loose across the pillows and her face was free of any make-up, and Edmund thought she much better like that. More like the sister he remembered.

Sunlight streamed through the curtains. Birds were chirping and twittering outside the windows, but their sweet song seemed out of place to Edmund. Yesterday burned fresh in his memory, and he felt like today's blue skies completely defied the chaos that had been last night. He tried to picture mornings like this one at home in Narnia, but it was difficult. The memories were as clear as ever – they never faded, which was partially why Edmund was so angry that Susan pretended they did – but it became harder and harder to relate to them. Were they ever that happy? And how could they hope to match such a life here, in dreary England?

Edmund spent the rest of the early morning finishing the last few chapters of his book, musing over the question that had bothered him the night before: Was pity inapplicable to oneself – selfish and redundant, or necessary for one's own redemption? Even by the time Lucy was stirring, though, he still hadn't come up with an answer.

He watched her rub the sleep from her eyes from the uncomfortable chair in the corner. He was back in Lucy's room again, after he'd had breakfast with his parents about two hours ago. Father had gone to work and Mum was off at the market, and he hadn't moved from the spot since.

"Ed?" she said, sitting up and looking round the room.

"Shh. . ." he answered, getting out of his seat and moving to the edge of the bed. "You've had a time."

"Wha. . . What's happened? I feel perfectly dreadful."

Edmund cleared his throat. "Erm. . . Last night, you went to that party with Susan. . ."

"Well, yes, I remember that," she said. Then her face twisted and she said, "But I don't remember coming home. . . What happened?"

"You had a bit much to drink, so I went and fetched you," he told her.

"That's all?"

He hesitated. She knew him too well, to know that he was concealing something. Edmund very much wanted to lie, but after everything he'd been through, he knew he couldn't.

"You – you were rather upset. And you were talking about Narnia to few people."

She looked horrified. "What? Oh, Edmund! What did I say?"

"It's all right," he assured her. "I don't think they took you very seriously."

She was quiet. He battled with himself for a minute or two before deciding to ask.

"Lu," he began tentatively, "last night, while you were – er – sick, you mentioned a few things that I'd never heard you talk about before. About Narnia, and Caspian, and I've been thinking. . ." He met her eyes and uttered it quickly. "Did you get back to Narnia, and not tell any of us?"

She bit her lip and shifted her gaze away from him. From years of training and experience, Edmund knew the signs of lying well. What made it disconcerting was that he'd never seen Lucy exhibit any of them.

"I – I – " she paused and closed her eyes, and Edmund thought she looked hollow. Empty. She looked down at her hands, and whispered, "I did go back. I was there with Caspian. . . and we had our son. _My_ son."

Though he'd already suspected the possibility, her confirmation floored him all the same. His mind was flying six ways at once, searching for the flaw in her words that would prove them untrue, but he could find none. He could barely speak, too amazed at this secret to find his voice.

"Wha. . . you. . . How? When did it happen?"

"A few weeks ago, remember, when I went out with Susan and Roger? That. . . that night. I went back, and I stayed for nearly ten months. And – and Caspian had been married, Ed, so we –" she gave a mighty sniff, and tears began falling in earnest. "We kept it secret. . . and I lived the whole time in that little room – remember it, Ed, the one near the armoury? And we had the cordial, and Aslan brought me home when it was over – and I looked exactly the same – only I _wasn't._ I feel horrible all the time, Ed, because two pieces of me – are still there. . ." and she gave herself up to the sobs shaking her slender shoulders. She covered her face with her hands and cried like he had never seen before.

Edmund jumped off the bed again and went towards her. His hand hovered over her shoulder – every knightly instinct in him was shouting to comfort her, but such gestures never seemed as natural in England as they had been in Narnia. Last night was quite different; Lucy hadn't really been _aware_ of what was happening. Now though, when he was needed as a real source of comfort and consolation, Edmund's insides squirmed. Peter always had an easier time with this sort of thing. For his brother, kingly grace translated from Narnia to England as naturally as spring into summer, but he had not adapted so easily.

He sat down behind her and draped his arm awkwardly across her shoulders.

Edmund knew it really wasn't the proper time, but his analysing nature couldn't help itself. "But – how?" he asked. "What about Aslan's word?"

She gave a loud half-groan, half-sob, and Edmund wondered if Susan would come to Lucy's bedroom if she heard her crying. Probably not.

"He said – he said it was Magic beyond his," Lucy said. "I didn't even understand it, because it was only Susan's horn – Caspian blew it again, and it was my fault too because _I wanted it._ I wanted to be called, because I loved him even here, even in England and when I knew he'd been married and then I was there and we – and we were together, and I _knew_ it was wrong but I didn't care, I didn't! And then I ruined everything for Caspian, and Aslan. . ."

Edmund was at a complete loss for words. Never before, in either of his lifetimes, had he been so unable to find quick and clever words to fit a situation. It was strange, to _feel_ instead of _think_. He had never understood something so deeply or completely. Her heartache was redoubled; it pulsed sharply in his own chest with each uneven breath she drew. He stroked her hair softly.

"I. . . I wanted to be a mother so badly, Ed. . ." Her voice was very quiet, muffled by her hands.

"You – you are a mother," he answered uneasily. The words felt strange and foreign in his mouth. His seventeen-year-old sister was a mother. Queen Lucy, the Heart of Narnia, innocent, pure, always-good Lucy – had had a child of her own. His baby sister was a mother. . . he was an uncle, for heaven's sake! It was too incredible, yet here he was, holding a sobbing girl in his arms. And as much as he wished for disbelief, Lucy was no liar, and his faith in her had been unshakeable since he had followed her into a snowy wood years and ages ago.

"No – no, I'm not," she said. "_She_ is. Ramandu – Ramandu's daughter gets to be there for everything, with Caspian, when Rilian grows up. . . She'll be the only mother he'll ever know, and I – I won't be anything at all, because we swore never to tell anyone – " Lucy choked a little, and said with renewed tears, "There's another promise I've broken, Ed, I've went ahead and told you. . ."

Edmund had no idea how to reply. His mind was churning, juggling so many emotions that he could barely sort them out. Lucy didn't deserve this! No bad should _ever_ come from a love like Lucy's: she was too good. It was _Lucy_! She never did _any_ wrong, especially compared to him – and he was barely punished for a crime much greater. Surely everyone knew how much she would suffer because of it.

He was angry with Caspian, whom he had loved like a brother on the Dawn Treader, and whom he charged with caution towards Lucy. How cowardly to disregard the promise of marriage, and the word of one king to another! But even as he thought it, Edmund knew he could hold no anger or grudge. After all, he was guilty of nearly the same sin.

And Aslan, Aslan had gone against his own word. Was that even possible? Could there be a reason, an explanation. . . ? It didn't even matter! How could he have allowed it? Wasn't Lucy his favourite, in all of Narnia? _She was always good._ And she deserved to be loved, the way heroines were loved in the great, sweeping romances. But of course, those stories never ended well for young girls seized by passion.

Lucy had drawn her knees up to her chest. Edmund held her small frame close to his body, wrapping his arms all the way around her. He was glad that they were nearly back at their proper sizes now - because for some reason, he felt very small. Like they were two tiny fish in a great ocean, with no say in where the rough waves would take them.

Edmund could feel her tears seeping into his sweater. He'd never felt so close, so connected to his younger sister. For of course, he had been in quite the same position, consumed with a love so undeniable it broke every vow he'd ever made.

Not for the first time, his mind wandered to his own lost love. . . maybe he did have an heir living somewhere in Narnia. But no. It couldn't – mustn't – be. And anyway, if it were so, it was exactly as she said. It was done. Whatever there had been, however he had felt. . . that life was over.

"It hurts, Ed," she croaked. "All the time. I dream of them. . . And it – it – it doesn't even matter. They're all dead anyway," she finished bitterly. Edmund hated the tone in her voice, so separate from her usual cheer. It only outlined what seemed an inevitable end in this world, spending their whole lives mourning what had been lost; or else, like Susan, wasting it searching for the next closest thing.

He hugged Lucy tighter and closed his eyes. Self-pity, or regret? Or neither?

Happiness in England had never seemed so far away.

* * *

**A/N: **Thanks everybody for staying with me. These last few chapters did contain some elements of Edmund's character from my other story, Lily's Eyes, but hopefully they didn't overshadow his role here.

_THANKS:_

_Thank you, of course, to Francienyc, author of Caspian's Queen. That wonderful story inspired me to write The Call of the Horn, which led to this story._

_To Graham Greene, author of _The Heart of the Matter_, for the quotes that frame the chapters._

_To Google, which I use to research everything from hangover cures to postpartum depression to bathroom architecture in the 1940s._

_To my dear friend Sophie, for the unforgettable experience of caring for a drunken pal. Thanks for the lessons in gibberish!_

_To Mitzuko-chan, whose constant stream of encouragement was a big help in writing TCotH._

_And lastly, to all the readers and reviewers for their feedback and support. You guys are awesome!_


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